


Dancing on Water

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, post-character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-14
Updated: 2011-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-23 17:45:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude





	Dancing on Water

**Title:** Dancing on Water  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Pairing:** Merlin/Freya; off screen hints of Arthur/Gwen, Lancelot/Gwen  
 **Word Count:** 1,400 approx.  
 **Spoilers:** Spoilers for series 3 up to the finale.  
 **Disclaimer:** The characters don’t belong to me; they are the property of the BBC and Shine. No profit is being made.  
 **Summary:** Merlin shares a dance with his lady.

 

They’re all celebrating; it was expected they would be.

Everybody but Uther Pendragon, the mighty king who’s alone in his rooms and has been ever since Camelot was re-conquered, has been engaged in carousing and dancing, honouring the victory of Arthur and his few loyal knights over the joint forces of Morgana and Morgause.

For once Merlin has taken a leaf out of Uther’s book and has chosen to sit on a low wall in the castle gardens.

It’s a nice night; and if he looks up he can see the full moon up above. The sky is clear of clouds, and though the night air has a frosty bite to it, he relishes it.

He hears laughter coming from inside the castle. He knows that Arthur is in the great hall, dancing with Gwen before the eyes of all the knights of Camelot, that Leon is busy telling the tale of their days in the cave and abandoned castle to whomever would listen. Merlin remembers that Gwaine had been trying to prove he could gulp down a whole flagon of ale in one sitting when Merlin had last set eyes on him.

As to Elyan, he's probably still discussing the changes that have taken place in Camelot over the past few years with Gaius. They both have memories of how it had been before Merlin strolled past its gates one early afternoon some four years past.

“Why are you here all alone?” It’s Lancelot’s voice that breaks the silence of the garden.

Merlin startles; he’d been so lost in his thoughts and Lancelot’s voice is a sharp reminder of reality.

He smiles, for he truly likes Lancelot and doesn’t want to make him feel as though he’s not welcome. “I’m enjoying this fine night. After all those nights in that damp cave, I’m starting to look on being in Camelot as a big blessing. I missed my bed.”

“Merlin,” Lancelot says gently, sitting astride the low wall. “You can talk to me.”

Merlin kicks his heel against the wall. “I’m okay.”

Lancelot leans closer and Merlin realises a little too late that he’s not fooling him. The confirmation comes when Lancelot says, “I can’t begin to imagine what it must feel like.”

“They all have something to return to,” Merlin says, shrugging his shoulders as if he can make the thought go away. “Not Percival, maybe. But the others...”

There’s understanding in Lancelot’s eyes. And Merlin starts to feel like the lowest of the low, since he’s just reminded the man that he’s come back to a Camelot that is very different from the one he left behind that first time. And Merlin’s loyal to Arthur and ought to want Arthur happy. But he’s also Lancelot’s friend and this is so complicated, he can’t handle it without hurting someone.

“There’ll be someone for you, Merlin.“

Merlin wants to say that there was and she’s gone. He’s ridden on a wave of adrenalin over the past few days that has made the pang of seeing Freya again almost bearable.

“And when you find her,” Lancelot says warmly, “don’t let her go.”

Merlin remembers Freya as she’d been, alive, frightened, but beautiful. He remembers the reflection he’s seen of her in that murky puddle and suddenly he’s struck by a thought. The gods of the old religion have granted him something that's given to no man. A chance at defying death, however briefly.

He skips to his feet and spins around. He smiles, probably through his tears, and says, “Thank you, Lancelot,” before he dashes down the garden path, through the courtyard and into the stables.

 

****

 

It’s almost dawn by the time he makes it to the shores of the Lake of Avalon. The sun hasn’t risen yet and it’s that mystical twilight hour, when the day promises to break but hasn’t just yet and night could reign eternally if the sun forgot to shine.

The air is balmy, the water gently rippling, the sound of its washing ashore breaking the stillness of nature.

The lake looks like the dark surface of a mirror. It looks like a mourning veil fluttering in the breeze, a leaden depth that might be a trap, a way through to an unknown universe, or a hidden temple.

If it’s a temple, it’s safeguarding her.

Merlin looks at the last stars, the bright ones and the dying ones, and closes his eyes.

He huddles in on himself, calls to nature and gathers his power in a prayer meant to rend the barrier between the living and dead.

He roars it to the sky, “Atīew ætforan mec. Ic bebēode þē. Cum tō mec! Ic bebēode þē, Freya! Sēo hlaefdīge þæs meres.”

At first nothing happens.

The lake is still. And it seems as if, for a moment, the earth holds its breath. Then an arm breaks the surface and, slowly, she emerges from the waters.

She comes to stand there, beautiful and radiant, defying logic and the laws of nature.

She’s wearing the same dress Merlin gave to her to cover her when he found her naked and wounded in the grim passages that lie hidden beneath Camelot’s citadel. The same dress that went up in flames with her. She’s dry too, hair cascading and fluttering in the gentle wind, as though she hadn’t just burst forth from the waters that separate this world from Avalon.

A silvery ethereal light that isn’t the sun’s seems to be shining on her from down below as though the lake was honouring its lady.

She lifts an arm and beckons to him.

He shakes his head, looks to the left to try and remember where he'd anchored the small round boat he’d used when he’d come to retrieve the sword.

She shakes her head too, smiling softly, proving him wrong by taking a step and then another one.

The water forms puddles beneath her feet, but she doesn’t sink. She glides-walks a distance and then raises her arm again.

This time Merlin inhales, incants a spell and tries it too. At first it’s not working and his feet are like lead, sinking down, water lapping at his ankles. He shoots her a glance, wills her to forgive him.

Then she says, “Come to me, Merlin,” and he does.

He makes himself be magic, pure and simple. So he can join her.

“Hello,” he says through his tears, looking his fill, committing her to memory just in case he can’t summon her again. “Hello,” he says again, to make it real.

She wraps an arm around his waist and he can feel her, cool and solid.

He kisses her, slowly, softly, her mouth opening up to him and making him feel things that leave him trembling, both happy and immeasurably sad. He’s both filled to bursting and hollow inside. He’s treasuring every moment, every breath taken in her company, every little touch.

They kiss for an eternity or maybe a heartbeat, her lips covering his, and then he’s showering her in kisses, holding her hand against his chest, where his heart is.

“Merlin,” she says.

And Merlin knows he’s making a fool of himself, that he can’t stop the tears from welling up in his eyes; he can’t stop holding her close. There are so many things he wants to say; had no time to say properly when Camelot was falling and Arthur was giving up. But now that he can, the words refuse to come. “Will I see you again?” he asks instead.

She presses her cool lips to his throat and he tilts his head back to let her.

She murmurs, “Yes, when you need me. When Albion needs you. Great things lie ahead for you, Merlin.”

“My destiny,” Merlin acknowledges. He's come to terms with it; it's just difficult to be alone with it.

“A bright future,” she says, smiling up at him, her eyes lighting up. She clings tight to him and leans her head against his chest, whispering soft words. “You will know happiness and sorrow, Merlin, and you will found a golden Albion together with Arthur.”

He swallows past the knot in his throat and kisses her once more, lips on lips and nothing more, though he holds it for as long as he dares.

“Dance with me,” she says.

And he laughs.

And they dance on the water's surface, twirling and gliding, as if it were the finest hall's floor, water shining bright beneath their feet, drops like transparent pearls, crystal clear, nature holding its breath for them, till Merlin lets the dawn break.


End file.
